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The Matriarch of Herra's Children
' ' '' It was dusk. Virgin snow settled upon the peaks of Skyfrost. The whispers of old women and their machinations flittered between the silhouettes of the lonely mountains like ravenous crows. Upon one such outcropping, its face shadowed by the mass of Skyfrost Peak, stood figments of blasphemy against the Seven’s will. Here, shrouded by cloud and soot and mystery, the Cult of the Five did gather. Three women, their faces garbed in cloaks of grey, whispered hymns of heresy. They stood alone upon the wet rock, chanting aloud in broken tongues. Their aged fingers danced through their cloaks; they produced filaments of strange origin, twigs of rotten wood, and spoiled parchment. “The lover lost, the key is bound, bring back our broken Mother,” they sang in rasped, painful tones. “A union bore by sanguine rite, the matron of our Father.” Though the wind bit like scornful wasps, the women did not falter. Rather, their bony appendages, like needles, began to weave the foundations of a pyre. Slowly, as the frostbit air filled with their sacrilegious chant, the mountain birthed their labour. A ritual circle now stood upon the mountain side. The sun did not reach here, the snow did well to give it wide berth. One of the women, the most ancient of the three, walked towards the center of the ritual site. She produced a long piece of chalk and, with a deftness that defied the arthritis in her fingers, drew a strange and alien symbol. A Wraith Gate. Within the confines of the white circles the woman drew a long and winding name. Her lips curled into a grueling smile; five gnarled teeth glistened against cracked gums. “Gi-Hallivalah, do not keep us waiting long,” she whispered to the hollow symbol. The three women stood aloft, their broken bodies growing taller at the completion of their task. “The lover lost, the key is bound, bring back our broken Mother. A union bore by sanguine rite, the matron of our Father.” Their chant climbed the frost-torn peaks, louder than before. From shadows were their cantations joined by yet more warbled voices. Soon the mountains were ebbing the dissonance of unholy hymns. The summoning had begun, now all the women could do was wait and pray to their dead, dangerous god. It was not long before the ritual circle erupted in flames. The living heat coalesced into a writhing form; Gi-Hallivalah stepped forward. Her hair spiraled into black pillars upon her white and red attire. Against the backdrop of ice and age, she was a spark of fire. “Gi-Hallivalah, you are late,” spoke the decrepit elder. Her withered eyes saw through the cataracts that blinded them. To the ancient woman, Gi was as bare as a newborn. “Silence your tongue, witch, your chant is finished. I found my way here well enough, didn’t I?” The woman cackled, “my my, Lancerus has filled you with some spite now, hasn’t it?” A flicker of humanity glinted across her face. “Is that any way to treat your mother?” Gi’s face crinkled in insult. “Mother? You are no mother to me. You failed your passage, I did not, and that is why you summon me.” The old woman said nothing; Gi took that as a sign to say it for her. “You may have birthed me but I am no more your daughter than those two hags behind you. I belong to our Sorceress Mother now.” The elder, pain hidden by years of sin and guilt, took the jab as one of camaraderie. “A proper response for any Firstborn of the Matron. Speaking of,” her hand gestured towards the damp cave behind her, “you had best not keep her waiting much longer.” Gi’s stoicism fractured, her mind clairvoyant to her purpose here. “Very well. Lead the way, witch.” ……… The tomb that Gi now entered fell away into darkness. Huge structures of chiseled stone and warped geometry rose to meet her as she descended further into the darkness. It was warm here. The elder led her as the wizened tortoise may lead a young hare deeper down to dungeons unknown. Gi had been this way before, into the dark recesses of Skyfrost, but not since she was a young girl. The Sorceress had chosen her, then. Her birth mother had failed, there was little expectation that she would be any different. Gi found herself smiling. Oh how wrong they were. “This is it, High Maiden,” the elder said, motioning towards a spiteful black precipice of iron. The wall rose to meet her, broken only by outcroppings of ebony spikes and cryptic runes. “Caer Khasa,” Gi whispered in reverence. “The home of Herra’s Children.” The gates opened unprompted. Gi, startled, was nudged by her sense of duty and glided towards the ravenous slit. Darkness swallowed her; all went black. A low rumble filled the pitch chamber. Bass of voices. Warmth enveloped her in a way she did not expect from Skyfrost; sweat flowed down her neck and pooled in the basin of her collarbone. Then, light. A strike of crimson and a rush of air lit torches all along the cavernous hall. Gi’s path was lined dancing flames that led her towards a second set of massive doors. Young girls moved about the chamber, their pale faces marred with duty and toil. Some of them had boys in tow, their ragged bodies burned with iron and clad in chains. Such is their place. Gi strode towards the doors, the bass growing ever louder. She could now detect the polyphony of a complex musical choir emanating from beyond the doors. With a massive exertion of strength the iron barrier creaked open. Symphony met her. The vast chamber was lined with tiered rows of priestesses and witches, each singing from within the embrace of blackened robes. Their tale was sung in Hasserric; their song spoke ill of the Seven and their vassals. The light seemed to pulse from behind stained glass windows depicting the triumphs of the Goth and his Chosen Five. Their scenes of victory and carnage were lit like forest fires from behind. Wherever did the light come from? The choir fell silent. Gi’s eyes were ripped away from their musings to see a tall robed figure standing at the center of the room. “The Bride awaits,” the figure spoke in a voice of lucid sensuality. “Blood be our union,”Gi responded, a mix of wonder and fear plaguing her rehearsed lips with hesitation. She bowed low. “Matron Mother Uma, it is good to see you well.” The robed figure laughed and pulled away her veil. Silver hair that sparkled with the rays of starlight parted to reveal a face none more flawed than any Vanessi. Were it not forbidden to have Elves in the order of Herra’s Children, one might think this woman was a Highborn. “I am much more than well, Gi-Hallivalah,” Uma said with a smile. “I am elated. Come.” She turned and motioned for the choir to resume their hymnal chants. Gi rose and followed, ever careful not to step on the trail of Uma’s clothes nor the sensibilities of an easily angered Sorceress. “Your trials in Lancerus,” Uma said, “how fare they?” Gi swallowed. This had been what she had feared. “Matron Mother,” Gi said, false confidence shattering before the silence of Uma’s gaze, “I have… mixed results. The Hand of Men continues to plague the west, and heretical revolts in Arn grow stronger every day…” “However,” Uma interjected, “The Whitefang is not in our custody, the Darkmoon Saints rejected your facade, and our witches are hunted by Wolfknights and Shield Maidens. Mixed results indeed.” Gi found her breath faint and scattered. “If I may, Matron Mother…” Uma raised her hand to silence the Firstborn. “Gi-Hallivalah, your birth mother failed me. She now finds herself a Wraith Witch until the stubbornness of old age beats her cold body to dust. Your three older sisters also failed me. Spectacularly, if I may add. They were too small to make into soldiers, and so we… well, you remember.” Gi would never forget the taste of her sisters’ flesh. “But you proved me wrong about your weak bloodline. Now you find yourself the Firstborn of Lancerus. I am sure you feel afraid of failing me, what with your blood’s history of failure, but rest assured: you have done far better than I expected.” Gi scrunched her face in confusion. “Forgive me, Matron Mother, but my instructions were clear. Were I not to fulfill your wishes I would be-” “Oh hush you filthy bitch,” Uma said. “Of course I know what I said, but did you honestly believe yourself capable of such preposterous feats? Lancerus is the bastion of light left in this world. Even I would have had trouble bringing those Septist bastards under my heel.” “Then, I have done well?” Gi said with a timidness not of her character. “Very well, my Firstborn. The other realms of Men have already succumbed to our whims. Kyoni roils in war, Soa is broken and scattered, and do I even need to mention the fate of the Waste wanderers? All is falling into place, but there is yet more to do.” They turned a corner; two heavily armored soldiers stood watch outside a plain wooden door. Uma beckoned them to stand aside. “We have merely set the stage for what is to come in the West. Now it is time to show Lancerus what true fear is.” The two women walked into the room. The stone corridor was bare save for a wet table in the center illuminated by torchlight. Upon the table was strewn a pale man; his body was naked and stretched to its limits. Heavy ropes and chains barred him from freedom and his limbs strained from the contorted dimensions they were forced into. His head was covered by a moldy sack. Uma removed the covering to reveal the face of an adult male. His visage was marred with scars both old and fresh, though there was yet a fire of determination in his eyes. His mouth was gagged. “We could not break this one,” Uma said, her fingers trailing fresh whip wounds along his bare stomach. “We have had him in our custody for some time, yet the iron grip of the Seven seems to have emboldened beyond our normal tortures.” Uma sauntered to his side and removed the gag from his mouth. He spat and drooled as his lips languished from their confines. “Speak your name, male,” Uma said, her soft hand hovering over his damp head. He remained silent. Uma sighed and turned to Gi. “This is Matthias of Oden, former Bishop of the Septist Church. Thanks to your efforts, Gi, he was captured first by the Hand of Men and then by us.” “What are you using him for?” Gi asked, her curiosity overpowering her better sense. One thing that her and the Matron Mother shared was a love for torture. “This is a man of great faith, a man who built his life’s foundation upon the belief that his gods would spare him servitude in the Void.” Uma looked at the man’s eyes, prying them apart with her needle-like gaze. The man began to chant, “I Má Núora, Chapter 2, Verse 1: And Rorn made known the Canons of Worship: Believe in the Seven as the only source of worthy power in the Universe, that none may deceive you away from the light. Submit to the Seven-” “-as your lords and seek to become one with their virtue,” Uma spake for him, “for they who were One became Seven, just as Seven begat Eight, and Eight shall be One. Love the Seven with all your heart, with all your mind and with all your spirit.” Uma smiled wickedly. “Your Holy Sojourn will not save you here.” She turned now to Gi and said, “this man is a paragon. Let us now see who has the stronger gods.” She snapped her fingers. The shattering of breaking ice filled the chamber. From the dark corners of the room came a man, or rather, the form of a man. Its body was comprised of locked, intertwined chains and heavy soldered bars of iron. Bits of hair and muscle had fused with the array of metalwork, creating a walking labyrinth of secrets and rust. Only one bloodshot eye was visible beneath the veil of steel; it pondered the scene with a sense of anger and duty. Uma approached the horrific creature and spoke a gentle recantation. Her nimble fingers spun through combination locks, birthed keys and opened passageways. The chains subsided around her arm. Where should have been a heart and lungs the creature harbored a black iron box. Uma reached into the dry chest cavity and removed the vessel. “Thank you, Angwedh,” she said. “That will be all.” The creature said nothing. It turned and dissipated into the darkness. Gi was sure there was no door there. “Gi, open this box,” Uma said. “It is unlocked.” Gi cradled the vessel. It was roughly the size of a human head, leading her mind to fathom so grotesque gore within its confines. When she opened it, however, she was surprised to find an ornate ivory mask. It bore the shape of a beautiful, androgynous Vanessi. The eyes, empty though they were, harbored something. Gi began to fear. “Uma,” she said in a hushed voice, “what is this?” “This, my Firstborn, is Fúramn’Ina.” Gi gasped and nearly dropped the box before Uma catered it away from her. The Firstborn’s eyes widened in disbelief and wonder. “How? When?” Uma smiled and kissed her priestess on the lips. “Do not fret, my child. We have had the Mask of Fúramna for some time, but it was never necessary to use its gift.” Gi’s eyes wandered to the man on the table. He did not know what power he was about to witness. “Until now.” Uma walked to the man’s side and began to uncouple his bindings. His body relaxed from the excruciating restraints, though he showed no gratitude. Uma left one restraint tight, however; the man’s right arm was still bound by lock and cuff. He made to stand up; Gi produced a dagger to keep him still. “Matthias,” Uma cooed, “do you know who Fúramna is?” Matthias stared her down as best his feable body could manage. “Parmenen Rorn Almë, Chapter Three, Verse 21: Of the most sacred glens of Uaman, whose lands were lost to the shadow of the Five, were those of the families of the line of Riverking, who rest now in Unquala’s watch. So numerous were their descendants: the line of Holst, the kings of Nightbanner and the warriors of Rakau. Nolweva’s light bore victory at their dusk; Fúramna is but dust.” Uma smirked. “So you only speak in Sojourn verse, is that it? You must be truly proud of yourself. Tell me, what does your holy book say about self mutilation?” Uma took the mask and put it upon her face. All was still. “Fúramna is the God of Fear, bishop,” Uma said. “Allow me to demonstrate. Gi, you would do well to avert your eyes.” Gi did as she was commanded and turned away, closing her eyes for fear of what may happen. She could hear her Matron Mother reveal her masked face to Matthias. He began to scream. She could hear him straining against the locked cuff around his arm and he attempted to get away from Uma. “Matthias,” Uma said, “the only way out is without your hindrances. You’re running out of time.” Gi could hear him moaning in horror as he yanked his captured arm out of its socket. Then there was a gnawing sound; a crunching. Gi felt something hot splash the nape of her neck. “Almost there, Matthias,” Uma said. He grunted in agony. Something hard was slamming down against the stone table again and again and again. Then there was nothing. “You may turn around, Gi.” Gi turned and opened her eyes to the carnage that was once Matthias. His mangled body was still loosely connected to the table by his arm. From what Gi could gather, he had attempted to rip off his hand to free himself. When biting and breaking had not worked, he simply chose to end it all by smashing his forehead into the table. Blood leaked from the crater in his face where his nose had once been. Across the way, Uma had already placed the mask back into the box. “Gi,” she said. “This tool is now a weapon that Herra’s Children will use against the Seven, but it is only one of many.” Gi-Hallivalah collapsed and worshiped her Matron Mother. “What would you have me do, my Mother?” “You are to return to Lancerus with new purpose. The Godswalk is revealing the last relics of our fallen comrades. One such relic now rests in the hands of a feckless youth too stubborn to know the power he wields. You know of whom I speak?” Gi looked up at her beautiful mother. “Was it not I that found the Rakaun boy? I have tracked Malek’Reth since it left Ashen hands. I merely awaited the proper time to retrieve it.” Uma turned away, her white robes stained in bishop blood. She reveled in the heat. “The time is now.” Category:World Lore